[Jason Todd's POV]
I knew poking the beast would make it roar.
Roman Sionis—Black Mask, is the kind of guy who thinks fear is his birthright. Like he owns the patent on terror. His whole empire runs on intimidation, on the illusion that he's untouchable.
But illusions break easy when you kick in the front door and toss a duffel bag full of heads on the coffee table.
I made a ss. And I know he's pissed.
Good.
Let him lose sleep. Let him scream at his boys while his empire cracks at the edges. I want him sweating. I want him jumping at every sound, every shadow. Wondering if this is the night I show up and carve his na off the Gotham food chain.
Truth is... I already started.
His dealers? Mine now. Not all of them. Yet. But enough. And the rest? They're knee-deep in fear, can't tell if the wet under their boots is piss or blood.
I'm on a rooftop in the Bowery—half a mile out from Black Mask Tower. Wind's cold. Cuts right through my jacket. It's stupid-late. That dead hour where even Gotham's monsters crawl into bed and pretend to be human.
? I'm just getting ward up.
I've got eyes on his building through my scope. Top floor's still lit. He's pacing. Probably yelling at soone he'll kill in an hour.
Perfect.
I take a bite of my protein bar, chewing slow while I watch his little kingdom flicker like a dying bulb.
Down on the street, the usual scum shuffle through their routines—dealers, mules, muscleheads. So of them used to be his. Now they're mine. They just don't know it yet. But they will.
I flip through the photos on my burner. Faces of his inner circle. Nas. Schedules. Habits. All handed to by rats Roman didn't even know were chewing through his foundation. Fear does that. Loyalty evaporates when it sees a red hood coming.
I stopped at one photo—Troy Rusk.
Mid-tier goon. Runs Roman's docks out in Baypoint. Big guy. Always talking, never thinking. Cheats on his girl with one of his own drug mules. Drives a beat-up black truck—busted taillights, cracked windshield.
Predictable.
And right on ti. 2:00 AM.
So people run on clockwork, even the scumbags.
I stashed the phone, half way zipped my jacket, and moved.
Grapple line hisses out as I glided through Gotham.
Dropped down two blocks ahead of his route and slipped into an alley and waited.
Truck rolls past, low and loud. I shot a magnetic spike under the chassis.
Tracker locked. Then I walk.
No rush.
The night already belongs to .
And Troy? He's about to find out what happens when you work for a man whose empire's built on fear—then et the one bastard in this city who scares him.
We're gonna have a little…talk.
- - -
The city wind whooshed through as I dropped from the fire escape, landing soft between two dumpsters soaked in decades of piss, rain, and whatever else Gotham's guts leak at night.
The tracker's pinging—Troy's close. Two buildings ahead, parking behind so busted old strip club with boarded-up windows and enough sketchy backdoor action to run three dirty businesses out of one location.
Classic spot. Quiet enough to make soone disappear without an audience. Sloppy enough to make a statent.
I pulled my hood up. Slipped the knuckle-dusters over my gloves. Left the pistols and blades behind tonight—this one's up close and personal.
The truck door creaked open. That heavy-tal groan of a guy clocking out after a long night, ready to do sothing stupid with one of his mules.
Troy Rusk.
Mid-40s. Neck like a tree trunk. Swaggers like he's bulletproof just because Roman signs his checks.
I stepped out from the shadows.
"Hey, Troy."
He froze mid-step. Half a cigar dangling from his mouth, keys still in hand.
The color drained from his face like I'd already put two rounds in his gut.
"You—Red Hood…"
"That's right."
I cracked my knuckles.
He went for his gun. Too slow.
I was on him before he cleared the holster. Yanked the weapon out and bent his fingers sideways with a wet snap.
He howled. "You broke my arm!" I tilted my head. "Nah. Just a couple fingers. Don't be dramatic."
He threw a punch with the other arm.
I caught it, crushed his wrist, then stepped in close. Elbow drove straight down between his shoulders. He dropped face-first onto the pavent with a dull thud. "Now that's your arm. I hate it when you scumbags exaggerate."
Tried to crawl. Mumbling. Maybe a prayer. Maybe a plea. Maybe both.
I pulled the crowbar from over my shoulder. Let the cold tal settle in my gloved palm like an old friend.
"Roman sent you to shake down my turf. Told you already—this area's under my protection."
He rolled onto his back, blood in his teeth, eyes wide with panic. "Please, man… let's talk."
I raised the crowbar. "This is talking."
The first swing cracked his ribs. He scread—high, agonizing, useless.
The second shattered his shoulder. That cut the screams down to choking. By the third, he didn't make a sound. Just twitched.
When I was done, I posed him sowhere Roman wouldn't miss.
Taped him to the hood of his own truck. Arms broken. Crowbar punched clean through his chest like a battle flag.
Spray-painted across the windshield in thick red letters. "I OWN YOUR STREETS."
- - -
The call ca at 4:09 a.m.
Roman didn't like being woken up. No one fucking dared unless the world was ending.
But this? This felt like the world ending.
His phone buzzed against the side table like it had a death wish.
"Speak," he growled, half-dressed, pacing the length of his bedroom like a wolf with insomnia.
The voice on the other end stuttered. "Boss… it's Troy. We… we found him."
Roman stopped mid-step.
"Found him?"
"He's… he's dead, sir. Real dead."
That was the thing about his guys. They didn't panic easily. Not unless sothing really made them piss themselves.
Roman sat on the edge of the bed, one hand pressing against his forehead.
"Where?"
"Behind The Orchid. His truck was parked out back. You… you should co see this for yourself."
The call ended.
Thirty minutes later, Roman stood in front of Troy Rusk's truck, flanked by his personal guards, coat flapping behind him like a cape soaked in gasoline.
He stared.
Troy's corpse was duct-taped to the hood, blood dried and caked, limbs twisted at unnatural angles. The crowbar was still embedded in his chest, his mouth stretched open like it froze mid-scream.
Roman said nothing.
Just stared.
Then his eyes moved to the windshield.
Red spray paint.
"I OWN YOUR STREETS."
Each word a slap.
His jaw clenched. His breath hissed between his teeth.
"You see that?" he whispered, voice trembling with rage. "This… this motherfucker wants to embarrass ."
No one spoke. They knew better.
Roman turned to his n, slow. Controlled. Like a man walking a tightrope above an explosion.
"I want him dead. You hear ?"
No one dared blink.
"I want his fucking bones ground into powder. I want that red mask crucified so that every goddamn dealer that even thinks of working with him, would learn not to cross . I don't give a shit if you have to burn half the goddamn city to do it—bring his head."
A pause. His mask tilted up to the stars above.
"And when you find him—don't shoot him. Don't kill him easily. I want him crucified and screaming for days before he dies."
- - -
[Jason Todd's POV]
Every empire has veins—supply routes, drop points, safe houses. Cut the right one, and you don't just bleed it. You could corner the big man.
Red Hood wasn't interested in watching Roman Sionis bleed anymore. That part was done the night he burned the man's fear tax into the pavent. Now? Now he wanted Roman choking.
It started in Old Bristol.
He was perched on the roof of a half-collapsed chapel, watching the warehouse across the street, the one supposedly condemned by the city months ago. Zoning violations. Black mold. Fire hazards. A real bureaucratic graveyard.
Didn't matter. Roman had been using the place as a front for months, moving crates of pills and military-grade weapons like it was just another Tuesday.
Tonight, it wasn't going to see another sunrise.
Red Hood dropped through the skylight, landing quiet and clean on the warehouse floor. No dramatics. No grand entrance. Just business.
Four guards inside. One by the door. Two lounging near the loading crates. One upstairs on lookout.
The guy by the door didn't even get a chance to pull his gun. Quick elbow to the throat, knife in the ribs. Done.
The two by the crates were mid-smoke when a chain looped around both their necks. Red Hood yanked hard, slamming them into the container wall. One of them tried reaching for his sidearm.
Bad move.
A boot crushed his jaw before he even got the safety off. He crumpled. The other just whimpered and slid down to the floor.
Upstairs, the lookout must've heard sothing. He crept halfway down the stairs, flashlight in hand, right before a throwing knife punched into his thigh.
He scread as he tumbled the rest of the way down, crashing hard.
Red Hood dragged him behind a rusted desk and didn't waste ti. One sharp twist and the guy's shoulder dislocated with a sick pop.
"Next drop point," Red Hood growled.
"I—I don't know exactly!" the guy stamred. "South Tricorner! The old rail lot! We—we just move the crates!"
He didn't get a thank you.
Red Hood shoved an explosive deep into the main stash—ammo, pills, dirty cash. Enough poison to keep Gotham rotting for years.
The explosion that followed lit up the night sky like a flare from hell. The warehouse erupted like a mushroom cloud of fire.
He was gone before the sirens started screaming.
By the end of the week, he'd hit six more.
One in Chinatown. Two by the docks. One buried deep in the Narrows. All of them gone—clean hits. He left injured survivors who bore witness to his wrath.
Roman was bleeding, yeah. But now, the bastard was gasping.
- - -
[Roman Sionis' POV]
Roman Sionis had lived through mob wars, chemical fires, a goddamn alien invasion. He'd watched the Bat dismantle half his crew with nothing but a glare and a cape.
But this?
This was personal.
Every morning brought a new insult; a destroyed shipnt, a butchered crew, another lieutenant too scared to show his face.
Six supply lines. Gone. Millions in product. Burned.
The worst part? The ssage.
Not the blood. Not the bodies.
It was the tone.
This "Red Hood" wasn't trying to win a war.
He was after sothing else. So Roman changed his approach. He needed chaos of his own.
And chaos… he had in spades.
- - -
The eting room at Black Mask Tower was bathed in low red light. A long table between him and the Fearsom Hand of Four.
And at the head?
Roman.
Glass of bourbon in one hand. Gold-plated revolver in the other.
"Everyone in this room wants sothing," he said, pacing slowly. "Money. Turf. Power. And I want one thing."
"I want the the Red Hood. This cocksucker is tearing through my empire like it's fucking drywall. He's cost millions. Respect. Fear. You know what it ans when my guys start laughing behind my back? It ans I'm bleeding. And if I'm bleeding… all of you are too."
He stopped. Looked each man in the eye.
"I want him gone. Not just dead. I want him humiliated. Crippled. Screaming. Drag his guts through the East End and hang him from the Narrows Bridge like a red warning sign."
The big guy among the Fearso Hand of Four—grinned with gold teeth. "You want him broken or buried, boss?"
Roman smiled beneath the mask. Cold and tight.
"Both. That cocksucker is a thorn at my side."
He stepped back, clinked his glass.
"Bring his helt. You do that, I'll make you rich enough to buy your own fucking corner of Gotham."
The room buzzed with savage excitent.
The hounds had been released.
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